


Hotdogs Versus Ice Cream

by writingandchocolatemilk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Food Service, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, AmePru, Drabbles, M/M, PruAme, Unrequited Love, What The Fuck Even Is AO3, request
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2015-01-16
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:16:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingandchocolatemilk/pseuds/writingandchocolatemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The man standing in front of him had white hair. The man standing in front of him was sneering, arms crossed. He observed Francis’ station with a look of superiority, smirk looking quite at home on his face. Francis raised an eyebrow. This man sold ice cream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hotdogs Versus Ice Cream

Francis liked to work with food. It was an art, something that required faith and knowledge and the right blend of ingredients. When he had quit his job at the talent agency, he had poured himself into cooking, searching the papers for job listings as the oven heated up. After a month, Francis had bought a table and a hotplate.

The menu changed daily and Francis only made a little over breakeven, but the customers were friendly and the food was delicious. Sometimes he sold crepes, sometimes fried foods, and other times sautéed.

The man standing in front of him had white hair. The man standing in front of him was sneering, arms crossed. He observed Francis’ station with a look of superiority, smirk looking quite at home on his face. Francis raised an eyebrow. This man sold ice cream.  
“So,” the man began.

Francis slipped on his own smile, leaning forward. “Welcome to my little stand! I see that you run the ice cream stand there just down the way. I should have come to introduce myself—“ He stood, holding out his hand, “Francis Bonnefoy.”

The man’s smirk looked like it had been stapled to his face. His eyes flicked to Francis’ hand, then the table. He laughed, a quick, awkward sound, ignored the extended hand.

“Gilbert. I’m just here to warn you that it’s tough on this street. Lots of competition for the customers. I hope you’re ready for some good old fashioned capitalism.” Gilbert uncrossed and crossed his arms. “I’m here to let you know that I won’t go easy on you.”

Francis had adjusted the pitcher of roses instead of shaking Gilbert’s hand. “I wouldn’t dream of it! You don’t seem like the type to…” Francis let his eyes wander, “Go easy.”

Gilbert let out another laugh and then ran away.

Not an hour later—after the lunch rush—there was another man standing in front of Francis’ table. This one had on an apron and a grin. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, sheepish looks when Francis caught him staring. When Francis offered his hand, Alfred squeezed it harder than he had to.

“Yeah, I run a hotdog stand,” Alfred jerked his head back behind him. “I smell your food and it drives me fucking insane.” _His_ laugh was loud and obnoxious. “It’s usually just me and Gil, so it’s, like, cool to see someone new, you know?”

Surprisingly, it seems as though Alfred and Gilbert talked. Well, maybe _talked_ wouldn’t be the right word for it. Alfred would wander down to talk to Francis, mentioning how many customers mentioned to _him_ that nothing could beat the original appeal of hotdogs. Gilbert, from his position across the street, would run across traffic, talking loudly about how customers appreciated a cold ice cream on such a hot day. 

They argued. They scared away pedestrians.

Gilbert scoffed. “You can’t have hotdogs for every meal.”

“What? Yes you can. Dude, you can only have ice cream for dessert or lunch. Hotdogs are nutritious. Carbs and protein,” Alfred slapped his stomach, “Just want my Mum would have wanted.”

A woman slowed, but she eyed Gilbert’s bleached hair and moved on. Francis watched mournfully. 

“Please, ice cream is the only food that people eat because it makes them feel good. And there’s this type that, if you suck on it, sticks to your t—“

“That’s just Dip’n’Dots.” Alfred rolled his eyes, stealing one of Francis’ crepes and munching on it. “It’s not that cool. Like, I could get way more full with hotdogs. Hey, who was that chick you were talking to?”

A rainy day chased away any pedestrians. Francis lounged around his home, texting anyone who wasn’t busy working. He had everything prepared for tomorrow’s cooking at the stand, but it wasn’t even three. If he really wanted, he _could_ go visit Arthur, but that—

Who was knocking?

Francis looked at his door, at his satin bath robe. He opened the door, leaning against the frame and raising an eyebrow at Gilbert.

“Not that I dislike spontaneous visits, but how do you know where I live?”

Gilbert shrugged. He almost looked _sullen_. Great Gilbert of the Ice Cream Stand was unconquerable. Here he was, holding a six pack of shitty beer, practically moping on Francis’ doorstep. That was Alfred’s thing—moping when his profits didn’t allow for the newest game console, when his boss came around to berate him for talking instead of serving. Gilbert was too proud.

“Alfred has a date,” Gilbert explained, “Couldn’t hang out.”

Francis yielded, allowing Gilbert to trudge into his apartment.

“He got a date? I would not have expected it. He’s cute, sure, but as for dating material… Was it the boy that’s been—“

“No, Alfred is an asshole,” Gilbert corrected, collapsing on Francis’ couch and opening a beer. He took a long sip. “He walks up and down our street like he owns the place, and then he is just so stupid and he buys ice cream even though he talks _shit_ about it. Asshole.”

Francis paused on his way to the kitchen. Passion is what fueled Francis. And those words… Francis looked over his shoulder at Gilbert. It sounded as though Gilbert’s passions were not being returned by a certain—

No. He couldn’t get ahead of himself. 

Francis filled a wineglass and returned to his living room. Casually, almost too casually, Francis took a seat and watched Gilbert chug his beer. Perhaps …

Francis really tried, he really did. He told himself that it wasn’t his place to intrude in the matters of love, that it was up to the participants to realize that they were star crossed lovers. But when Alfred would mention a football game, Francis would suggest they all go to a bar. And then he would leave the two of them. Francis moved his table across the street, so Alfred had to walk past Gilbert to see him.

Francis poked and prodded. But, well…

Later, after the wedding, Francis explained that Alfred would still be around for chats. Gilbert didn’t answer, and Francis didn’t stop him knocking back drink after drink after drink.

**Author's Note:**

> From Tumblr. Prompt from: aminoprince.
> 
> What the fuck even is AO3.


End file.
